THE NAMING
I read somewhere that names penetrate the core of our being, and I suppose, this is as good a time as any to confess my name is not the only lie Ive ever lived with, but
Nikki is the first invention for which I accept full responsibility.
Nickname is the word I plucked it from when I was six. I immediately liked the hard
k of it, which sounded firm and looked like a sturdily braced wall, whether I wrote block letters or loopy cursive script. I fiddled with the spelling for years, eventually dropping
c and adding another
k as if it were a second layer of brick. Toughness is what I was after, although I couldnt have articulated as much. My real name huddled behind that wall, along with its memories.
The girl with that name wasnt worth a lot, at least not so youd notice, which I suppose was why I chose to keep my distance. I mean, if she was worth the space she occupied, whyd someone lock her away? Whyd she take unearned beatings from strangers? Whyd her own mothernever mind. For now, lets just say the girl with that old name suffered things I wanted to forget. Besides, few people managed to pronounce my birth name as intended, and life is too short to spend correcting everyone I meet. I wont be revealing that name now, but thanks kindly for your interest.
CARDS ON THE TABLE
Cards on the table: I have a PhD in avoidance, which kept me running from the past for years.
CARDS ON THE TABLE
Cards on the table: I have a PhD in avoidance, which kept me running from the past for years.
I was particularly fond of parroting Scarlett OHara: Ill think about it tomorrow. But now my need for light and truth is greater than my fear of murky memories. Time to grab my flashlight and step into the tunnel. I peer into the past, pretending bravado, but still I shiver, as the ghosts of yesterday come screaming into the present without apology, dragging more baggage than I recall. Were masters of selective memory, arent we? Lets face it, were all allergic to pain. Pain can sully your soul, if you let it, and rage held in reserve will turn to sludge, will obstruct the passageway to your heart.
You wont even be aware of it, but over time, the river of your joy slows to a trickle. Your laughter loses its hardy echo. Before you know it, rage has you so clogged up inside, that precious little love or joy or laughter can squeeze through. If youre not careful, your heartjuststops. Emergency surgery is required. If youre going to survive, those passageways have got to be cleared.
Doctor? Get in here, stat.
BORN
I could tell you a thing or two about Harlem Hospital, not because I was born there, but because severe bouts of asthma made me an emergency-room regular. The muscles in my mothers arms must have burned from the ache of carrying me there night after night, which Im fairly certain she resented. Whats important about this detail of my birth? Place, I suppose. Harlem is
in me, which is odd in a way.
HOME
The first home that comes to mind had a hall running the length of it, rooms flagging off from either side like train compartments.
HOME
The first home that comes to mind had a hall running the length of it, rooms flagging off from either side like train compartments.
Eat-in kitchen, living room, bathroom, bedrooms in the back. They called it a railroad flat, perfect preparation for the hours I would soon spend riding the rails.
WILDLIFE
Home was never a safe place, as my sister, Carol, tells it. Forget the Wild West of inner-city streets, bullets buzzing by on the occasional Friday night, propelled by a deadly combo of alcohol and apathy. Im talking about
inside, any day of the week. Sis paints the picture: Id be tucked into a dresser drawer, higher off the floor than my crib, supposedly out of reach of the rats that roamed the rooms after dark.
I cant quite remember the hardness of the dresser drawer, only the softness of my blanket. I dont recall coming nose-to-nose with any rat, but there were mornings I did see an empty plastic bag on the kitchen table where a loaf of bread used to be, and the trail of breadcrumbs across the linoleum, a broken line of evidence.
WITNESSES
Ive cracked the past like a door. Things long forgotten keep slipping through, like the angels who appeared at night to visit me when I was two or three, bright lights sent as silent proof that God was always near.
SIZE DOESNT MATTER
Four-foot-nine. Such a tiny person to have her initials carved so deeply into the meat of my soul.
No matter how you spell it, the word Mother is too small to suffice.
MOMMY
She was quite the beauty, all brown doe-eyes the size of quarters, dimples deep enough to dive in, and a thick mass of shining black curls on which her veil rested like a crown. Her wedding photo with my father smiled sweetly from the photographers studio window for years, silently selling the world one tantalizing tale: You, too, can enjoy a moment of bliss like this.
IMAGINARY FRIENDS
Mommy had a secret life, a kind of play that was more serious than I knew. Sometimes Id catch her talking to people who werent there.
WAR
Daddy was a ghost in those early years, moving in and out of our lives, barely visible, like smoke.
WAR
Daddy was a ghost in those early years, moving in and out of our lives, barely visible, like smoke.
Yelling punctuated the air when he was there. Moms sharp tongue made his ears bleed every time hed gamble away the rent money. He nursed complaints of his own, like Mom draping wet diapers on his music stand, a sniper attack on a man who composed chamber music and played the violin. Cease-fires never lasted long.